For a second, I can’t move. I just watch her.
Because she looks like she belongs here.
My chest tightens.
I push open another door in the master bedroom, and she follows, still wide-eyed from the view. The light flickers on automatically, washing the space in soft white.
Her gasp echoes softly.
It's more than a closet—it’s a world. A walk-in wardrobe lined with oak shelves, racks of clothes that run the full length of the room. Dresses, jeans, sweaters, coats. Rows of shoes displayed like artwork. A glass island in the center gleams beneath the lights, filled with delicate jewelry, sunglasses, even silk scarves in every shade I thought she might like. She takes a hesitant step forward, fingertips grazing the sleeve of a soft cream sweater, then the hem of a dress. Her lip’s part, but no sound comes out.
“This is…” she whispers, voice breaking slightly. “Trey, this is…”
“Yours.” I finish quietly.
She turns to face me, eyes wide and glimmering in the low light. “How? When?”
“My household staff, or home bros as I like to call them,” I say with a half-smile, leaning against the doorframe. “But I chose some of it myself.”
“Home bros?” she shakes her head, “Trey, this is too much.” Emotion tightening her throat.
There’s a small, but very real chance I’ve invested too much time inDownton Abbey.
But fuck it—I’m not the only one in L.A. with a posse of staff. Logan can play house with Mac like a lovesick weirdo.
Chace? I don’t even know if the man wipes his own ass anymore. He’s got a thing for bidets, and a family tree so complicated it probably needs its own documentary.
Sam—pretty sure the guy is homeless. Sleeps in his car, showers at the gym, and wouldn’t change a damn thing. I say that because he’s never once invited me over for a housewarming party. Or, you know, a house.
You said you’d jerk off in his bed to assert dominance.
True. But he wasn’t gonna be in it.
I glance at my bewildered houseguest—wait. Shit.Wife.
From the look she’s giving me, she’s definitely givingwildered. That’s a word. That has to be a word.
“Trey…who are you?” she asks, her voice soft, almost trembling.
The wife does not appear to be vibing. #ballandchainamiright
“Sera, I’ve told you everything. I’ve been very forthright about this.”
Okay, getting nervous. Dial back the Britishisms, mate.
“I’m a bandmember in a successful group of musicians. I’ve got more money than I know what to do with. I found you in an hour of need, you tended to me, I saw pain in you that I knew too well. You reached out, and I came to repay my debt.”
I gesture toward the closet—yeah, the one exploding with designer chaos.
“This,” I say, “is me freaking out because I didn’t know how to dress a nun. So, it’s a bit of everything. Don’t worry about the cost. Return it, burn it, donate it—whatever. You’re at a point where you get to figure out who you are, like I had to when I was in a really fucking dark place with Mac’s brother. I can never pay him back…but I can pay it forward. You agreed to let me help, so take a breath, and let me fucking help.”
The last words tumble out in one breath, tripping over each other until I’m out of air.
I take a step closer, locking onto her gaze. “You’ve spent your life being told who to be, what to wear, what to believe,” I murmur, quieter now. “Now you get to choose. Every damn piece of it.”
Uh oh. If you make a bride cry on her wedding day, is that bad luck… or good luck?
That’s a stupid fucking thought.
